


An Excess of Roses

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Maglor has hoards of adoring fans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for the theatre to close, and Mírilindë reluctantly brings her husband today's gifts from his many admirers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Excess of Roses

Macalaurë was sitting at the dressing table with his back to her when Mírilindë came in, his harp packed neatly in its case at his side, his warm outer cloak already pulled about his shoulders. He stared off to one side, his eyes far away. For a moment she paused to admire the lamplight catching in his hair, still in the elaborate braids he wore for each performance. 

He suddenly turned to look at her, a weary smile touching his lips. “Lindë. I was just waiting for you.”

She snorted, going over to stand behind him. “Well excuse me if I took too long. You know, while you get all the applause and acclaim, some of us have to run things backstage.” She held up the loose linen bag she was carrying for him to look at. “Do you know what’s in here?”

"I can’t imagine."

"Red roses" she said, wrinkling her nose and opening the bag to show him the flowers within. "There were more of them today. The lovesick fools fawning over your every note, I mean… and they’re getting more persistent. I caught a few with pitifully bad forged backstage passes, trying to get in to see you in your dressing room. You should have seen the look one girl gave me when I wouldn’t let her in, it could have curdled milk. However did you get so many admirers, Káno?"

He looked amused. “They merely see I am the best at what I do. I can’t help it.” He looked up at her in the mirror on the dressing table before them. “I’m sorry if they’re causing a nuisance though. Perhaps I should put out a public message for everyone to stop hassling my wife, who is really only trying to get her job done, hmm?”

"That would be a start" said Mírilindë, and they stood in silence for a moment.

"Lindë" he said at last, slowly, "are you… does it bother you?"

"Does what bother me?" The words came a little too sharply for her own liking. 

He tugged on a lock of her unbraided hair and met her eyes in the mirror. “They don’t… I’m sorry you have to go through this.”

"I am an adult, Macalaurë, and a stage manager, and I can cope. It’s mostly a matter of crowd control" She gave a small smile. "Honestly, you should see some of the people who come to the stage door after the Alqualondë Players perform. Much more unruly."

"No, but I mean - "

"I know what you mean." She sighed, placing her arms around his shoulders from behind. "Yes, alright. Perhaps it bothers me a little when half the young people in Tirion turn up to bring you roses after you play, and treat me like some… some…"

He twisted in her arms, twisting to look at her. “Some what?”

"Some desperately  _average_  girl who got above herself and doesn’t deserve you” she burst out, angry with herself. “Works backstage, not particularly attractive or talented, probably sour and grasping - “

He stood up, anger building behind his eyes. “Did someone say that to you?”

"I’ve heard…" she faltered. "My sister says that people gossip. She was trying to spare my feelings, and she wouldn’t tell me specifics, but I can guess." She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "Not everyone was brought up in the house of Fëanáro, Macalaurë. I was not born a princess."

His brows were knitted together, his eyes like the stormy sea. “Ignore them. I love you, and they need to learn to grow up and cope with that. If not, then they can go fall into the Void for all I care, and good riddance.” He lifted her chin with a finger. “Hmm?”

She smiled sadly. “It takes a certain amount of skill and practice to ignore whispers. You have been doing it all your life; you were born to it. I suppose I am still learning.” 

He pulled her close to his chest in his arms, kissing her hair. Then he drew back, regarding her in concern. Slowly, he pulled a red rose from the bag on the dressing table and presented it to her. “For you, Mírilindë, princess in training, irreplaceable and undisputed queen of the backstage, crowd control expert, song to which my heart dances…”

She laughed, taking the rose. “Save it for your next opera, I beg you.”

"No, I won’t. You are worth all the roses that grow upon Arda, and more." He grinned, putting another flower in her hands, "take them all. They suit you more than they do me." He placed one in her hair, amidst her brown curls.

She tugged at it. “Augh, Káno, it will be tangled in my hair now.”

"That’s not a very romantic thing to say, Lindë."

"Well, you’re the poet." She handed him back one of the flowers.

He took it, placing it in his own hair to match hers, with a cheerful grin. “That I am.” He picked up his harp, and took her hand, leaning over for a tender brushing kiss before leaning back. “Shall we go then? Everyone else has left, probably. It’s getting late.”

She feigned outrage. “Well, whose fault is that?”

"Hmm, well, technically _I_  was the one waiting for  _you_ …”

She swiped at his arm playfully with a rose. “Come on. Let’s go home.”


End file.
